


Outcast

by Ercasse



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Explicit Language, M/M, Male Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-03
Updated: 2014-04-13
Packaged: 2017-12-28 07:22:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/989306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ercasse/pseuds/Ercasse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First, Geralt hunted down the Salamandra after they sacked Kaer Morhen. Then, despite his reluctance, he found himself embroiled in a war which engulfed Temeria and threatened to spread across the realm. A truce was struck, and Geralt found himself called upon again to assist King Foltest restore peace and rebuild the nation. After all this, Geralt decides he deserves a break. But the best laid plans...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Summons

**Author's Note:**

> This story is loosely based after the events of "The Witcher" video game, though I have twisted the plot and drawn in elements from The Witcher TV series (thanks YouTube!) - such as the idea that Witchers don't have 'feelings' like humans do. 
> 
> Introducing also another OC, because it's fun to play in the world of the Witcher! (NB - this story will be M/M i.e boylovin' so don't read it if it's not your thing). Comments welcome ^_^

Geralt looked out from his vantage point on the keep’s high walls. Gold-flecked eyes followed the progress of a group of students as they performed drills in one of the courtyards. The cooling autumn wind carried the familiar crack of wooden poles as they blocked and parried obediently at the instructor’s command. They were the youngest members of the Wolf School - the only group yet to ingest a mutagen.

It felt strange to be back at the Kaer again. Geralt could remember exploring the expansive grounds as a child, marvelling at its vastness. And yet now it felt smaller somehow, untouched by time. How must Vesemir and the other elders of the council feel to be isolated from the changes sweeping through the realm?

Evidence of the battle with the Salamandra was still visible here and there, though those unfamiliar with Kaer Morhen would be hard pressed to tell. It had been what? Ten years since the Professor and Azar Javad had pillaged the keep in search of alchemical secrets? The brotherhood had survived that night and had done as they always had – buried their dead and recruited children to carry on their duty as protectors of humankind.

It had been luck that had sent Vesemir and a group of students into the surrounding forest that same morning. Still, Geralt would never forgive himself for the body count. It had been too high. He had failed that day. 

“The students might benefit from your experience, Geralt.” 

The White Wolf turned his head towards the stairwell, unsurprised by his mentor’s appearance.

“I have no skill at teaching, Vesemir.” And then because he could not help but point out the truth – “We both know that neither a lesson in footwork, nor a demonstration of swordplay will help them when their Trials begin.”

“Not even if the lesson is delivered by a living legend?”

Geralt snorted. “Being a legend isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

“Indeed.” The old man reached Geralt’s side and clapped him on the shoulder affectionately. “It is good to see you here again.” 

Geralt studied his old mentor for a moment carefully, relaxing when he could find none of the illnesses of age present in the Elder, beyond a slightly whiter beard than he recalled at their last meeting.

“It is good to see you too, Vesemir. The rebuilding has been a success I see.”

“Stone can be cut and wood can be shaped. More troubling are our numbers. They grow progressively smaller with each cycle of the sun. Some say the time of the Witcher is passing.”

“Perhaps.”

They regarded the students below quietly for a moment.

“Word has it that you are advisor to Kings these days.”

“Keeping an ear to the ground, are we?”

“Allow an old man to be proud of his former pupil.”

“What, no lectures on the importance of neutrality?”

“I may as well lecture my horse for all the good I suspect it would do.” He raised an eyebrow sardonically. “But you must choose your own path and answer to your own conscience.”

“There’s the Vesemir I know.” Geralt smirked, then sobered. “Your summons was a welcome breath of fresh air in a stagnant Temerian court. Nobles are insufferable, petty and self-absorbed. And yet, at times I can achieve more there than with a sword in the forests and swamps of the world. It is frustrating.”

“One would think you were a diplomat in disguise.” Vesemir teased, plucking at a hole in the other’s shirt sleeve. Geralt just scowled at him, offended.

“Ah Geralt, you don’t realise how much you’ve grown since your graduation ceremony.”

“I should hope so. I was twenty at the time.”

“Can you say that even a handful of years ago you would be here discussing the benefits of being at court – to influence the realm for the better?”

“No. I would have asked you if you’d ingested one too many potions.”

Vesemir chuckled. 

“And do you feel it is the right path?”

“It was.” There was no hesitation in Geralt’s voice.

“It was one thing to observe as the Scoia’tael and human soldiers butchered each other. But I could not simply watch as both parties targeted their enemy’s women and children in their senseless war. After the truce was finally struck, King Foltest needed people at his side.” 

“And that need is no longer there?”

“My contract with the Temerian king expired three weeks ago and I respectfully took my leave. I am looking forward to guiding my own hand for a while. And I am sick of biting my tongue.”

Vesemir nodded his understanding.

“Foltest asked me to give this to you.” Geralt produced a folded parchment with a wax seal on it. 

“It’s a grant for several thousand Orens.” He elaborated, on seeing his mentor’s questioning look.

“Thank you Geralt.”

“Thank the King, Vesemir.”

“You can’t fool an old man. I know you’ve had a hand in this somewhere.” He waved the missive at the white wolf.

Geralt’s lips twitched but he said nothing. A moment later he decided to broach the one topic they had not spoken of.

“Am I here in an official capacity, Master?” 

“An old man cannot summon his pupil for a social visit?” Vesemir puffed in mock outrage.

“I’d be flattered. But I know you too well for that.”

Vesemir sighed heavily. “Very well. I summoned you here Geralt in the hopes your presence will serve as a reminder and temper the council’s harsh view on one matter. There is a student whose skill with weaponry, quickness of mind, and diligence recommend him for the ceremony of blades. And yet, he does not progress. He quarrels with the teachers, gets into fights with his peers and questions our methods. The council have yet to devise a punishment that deters this behavior for long. In truth, I am worried that the council will cast a vote to expel him from the brotherhood, should things continue on the same course.”

“And you thought of me.” Geralt said drily.

“Indeed. And that is why I wanted you here. So that the council can see the potential that can be realized, rather than the faults they now see. You and he are more alike than you know – “ Vesemir broke off as his name was called, punctuated by loud footfalls on the stairs. A young student hurtled into view, skidding to a stop when there was a few paces between them. 

“Master Vesemir.” He bowed quickly. “Master.” He added after a second’s scrutiny of Geralt. “The council have been requested to gather immediately.” He informed breathlessly. 

“The reason?”

“It’s Mithran, sir. Master Feld claims he broke Witcher law.”

“I will be there directly.” Vesemir thanked the boy and dismissed him.

Vesemir turned to Geralt, his lined face troubled. “Time seems to be against us this day. I am going to need your help, my friend.”

“Let me guess, this is the problem student you spoke of.” Geralt said with certainty.

The old man all but herded him over to the stairs leading down to the courtyard. 

“As a master-level Witcher, you are allowed to be present during council sessions, though you cannot vote.” 

“What are you scheming now?” the silver-haired Witcher asked suspiciously, though he obediently tagged along after his old mentor.

 

OoOoOoOo

 

Vesemir swept into the large chamber with Geralt in tow. It too had been untouched by time - a central stone table presiding over the room, and two narrow wooden benches along the back wall. Four of the five council members were already seated facing the entrance, making Vesemir the last Elder to arrive.

Both bowed briefly to the dais, then parted ways. Again, Geralt felt a wave of anger at the Salamandra surging through him. For he only recognized one other face on the council. 

Geralt continued over to the benches where a handful of other master-level Witchers waited. He did not bother to look for friendly faces among his peers. He checked a sigh as he sat down. At least things would proceed faster than in Temeria’s court; whether for good or ill he couldn't say.

Geralt’s expectations were not disappointed.

“The council has been called. Fetch the accuser and the accused.” A council member directed to the same lad that had sought them out on the battlements. The lad got no more than a few feet to the door before the group burst in themselves.

“I want this _–halfbreed–_ out of the brotherhood.” 

“I second the motion.”

“I third the motion.” 

The party of four advanced; a slim young man was shoved roughly forward. His robes were unkempt, and long raven hair tangled loosely obscuring most of his face. The apprentice stumbled slightly at the unexpected momentum; his hands had been bound behind his back.

“Master Feld. Your theatrics are not appreciated. Nor is your lack of trust in the abilities of our brothers. Unbind apprentice Mithran.” Vesemir’s words were cutting. Calculated to stop the drama Feld had wished to build upon.

A solid, brutish-looking Witcher stepped forward. The man scowled, but reached forward and cut the ropes. The boy brought his hands to his sides, but made no other movement.

“The council recognises Witcher Feld, and apprentices Yannick, Bren and Mithran.” Another council member intoned, calmly.

“You accuse apprentice Mithran of breaking Witcher law. Please elaborate for the council.”

Feld apparently took this as a cue to continue where he left off.

“He is a false Witcher! He disgraces our code, his mixed blood taints our brotherhood just like it taints his veins –“

“The council have previously ruled on apprentice Mithran’s results from the Trial of the Grasses. Druid Yvvak confirmed that while the results of the trial were unusual, the mutations were successful.” An Elder interrupted Feld’s tirade. “That decision was final.”

“Now, unless there is an actual charge you wish to –“ 

“We caught him _lying_ with an elf – a _male_ elf – like some base animal.” Feld roared over the Elder, drowning him out. 

The room sat in stunned silence for a moment. Geralt was no exception. His peers wore looks of horror and revulsion, murmuring to each other in disgust. As well they might, he though sourly. For these Witchers would never know emotions like love or lust. The mutagens they’d ingested were too thorough to allow for that.

_And another point of difference that makes me a freak amongst my own brothers._

Feld was extremely pleased with the effect of his outburst, for his expression was one of smug satisfaction as he scanned the audience. He felt a sudden sympathy for the boy. This was one of those rare times he was thankful for his amnesia. Had he once stood in the boy’s place? Been denounced for feeling such human emotions? He would never know.

The council called for silence in the room as the murmuring continued to grow in volume. 

“Is this true, Mithran?” 

“Yes Elder.” Came a light tenor response. 

The questions came thick and fast. 

“You admit to lying with another? A male, no less?”

“You allowed your emotions to cloud your reason and judgement?” 

“You admit to breaking the code we vow to uphold at all costs?”

At the last question, Mithran’s head snapped up. “I am a Witcher above all else.” 

“And yet you admit to this transgression.” the Elder returned, calmly.

“We were harming no-one!” The boy fairly shouted at the Elder’s table. _This must be the ‘troublesome behavior’ Vesemir was talking about._ Geralt felt a moment of amusement at the Council’s expense.

“See!” Feld broke in triumphantly. “Even now he is governed by his emotions.”

Mithran rounded on Feld. “And isn't your _gladness_ at my expense a display of unwanted emotions?”

“At least my emotions are not so overwhelming that it affects my ability to do my duty, mongrel!”

“Brothers! That’s enough.” Vesemir called in warning, and they both fell silent.

“Feld does have a point, Vesemir. How can the boy do this duty effectively when he is so distracted by these superfluous feelings?”

“Perhaps it would be…kinder…to allow him to leave Kaer Morhen? To know that he will never win his blades must weigh heavily.” Another member added.

There were nods around the council table. 

“Please, Elders –“

Vesemir stood. “My brothers, I would present another option. The outside world is in great need of Witchers. Our numbers are far too few. I would caution against reducing our numbers even by one. Few can recall a time when these halls were filled with Witchers and students enough that each master was assigned an apprentice to teach. I would suggest renewing this tradition in principle, if not in direct practice.”

To Geralt’s surprise, none of the Elders challenged Vesemir’s words. It seemed as if they were willing to hear the old man’s proposal. The White Wolf had a very bad feeling about Vesemir’s solution. He prayed that his instincts were wrong.

“It is clear that apprentice Mithran brings the Kaer into disharmony.” A sea of nodding heads suggested complete agreement.

“However, he excels in all lessons and demonstrates the capacity for great learning. It seems that his indiscretions do not stem not from a calculated, willful disobedience. I would not squander this potential by repudiating him, nor can I ignore the unrest he creates within our walls.”

“Out with it, Vesemir!” an Elder growled.

Vesemir raised an eyebrow at him but continued as if he had not been interrupted.

“I suggest that he be paired with a Witcher in the field. One with the experience and knowledge to teach Mithran the skills he will need to survive in the outside world. This Witcher would be responsible for preparing him to undertake the Trial of the Blades.”

“And what is to stop him from simply turning rogue; invoking our name to seize opportunities throughout the realm?” One questioned.

“Who would agree to take on such a student?”

“Then I propose a time limit. A year in which to prepare apprentice Mithran for his final Trial. And as for the Mentor – I already have someone in mind.” 

Vesemir smiled slightly at Geralt and gestured for him to approach the dais. Geralt wanted to ignore the summons. He was furious! He’d just gained his freedom from the machinations of the Temerian court. Stupidly, he thought he would be free from the intrigue within these walls. 

The silver-haired Witcher stood slowly, aware of the room’s sudden scrutiny. The boy had turned to face him, storm-grey eyes warily assessing him. A dark bruise marred his left cheek – _courtesy of one of his accusers?_ The boy’s high cheekbones and unusual eye coloring reminded him of Yaevinn. _Elven blood, perhaps?_ He kept his expression carefully schooled as he moved, choosing to stand between Feld and Mithran. 

“Elders.” He acknowledged with a slight bow.

“Councillors, may I present Geralt of Rivia?"

 

 

TBC


	2. Leaving

Mithran kept his head bowed as Vesemir spoke, his chest tightening painfully at the old Master’s words. He could feel his eyes burn with the threat of tears and he clenched his teeth angrily. Get a hold of yourself, idiot, or you’ll just prove the Elders right! That you’re an emotional wreck. He refused to show such weakness in front of his brothers. What was one more slur against him, anyway? He’d heard worse from both his peers and seniors over the years.

But never from Vesemir.  
Disharmony and unrest? I sound like some sort of disease or plague. The words cut into his heart like knives. If that was truly what the elder thought, why had he bothered to spend the time teaching him things that weren't strictly necessary to being a Witcher? Why intervene in any punishments he’d been given? Why pretend he’d actually cared for Mithran?

The Elders’ words penetrated his thoughts, his stomach churning sickeningly at the thought of repudiation. The Kaer was the only place he’d ever known. And he knew better than to think the elves would accept him. Most elves despised mongrels, and while the nearby tribe had learned to tolerate his visits over time, they would not accept him into their fold.

Mithran’s head snapped up at Vesemir’s next proposal. An apprenticeship? To a Witcher in the field? He watched the council members’ faces closely, hardly breathing. Hope fluttered quietly in his chest and he pushed it down. Hope was a dangerous feeling. So easy to build, and so easily torn away. But to his surprise, none of the other Elders vetoed the suggestion.

“…as for the Mentor – I already have someone in mind.”

Mithran followed Vesemir’s gaze to the back of the room, confused. There were no active Witchers at the keep, only teachers and students. Oh.

His gaze immediately found the man. Unusual yellow eyes bored into his own for a moment, before flicking to the council members as as he rose to answer the summons. His hair was as white as an Elder’s and yet there were no lines on his pale face. A natural pigment, then? A long, faded scar ran down the left side of his face from forehead to cheek; the weapon or claw had narrowly missed his eye.

This was who Vesemir had in mind? No wonder humans feared Witchers! Children probably had nightmares featuring this man. And Vesemir wanted him to train Mithran?  
Beside him, Feld had started smirking. One brute of a man recognising another. The apprentice felt his heart sink. If Feld was pleased, then it couldn’t mean anything good for Mithran. Likely he’d just cop more beatings disguised as lessons. There’d be nothing stopping him. If the man didn’t just kill him and toss his body into the nearest ditch.  
His vision of Feld was cut off as the Witcher came to stand between them.

“Elders.” A low voice acknowledged as the man gave a slight bow.

“Councillors, may I present Geralt of Rivia.”

Mithran returned his gaze to the floor. Why was the man – Geralt – even here? No Witcher could see into the future. And it was no coincidence that the man had just happened to show up today. Perhaps it had been planned all along? Maybe an elf had told Vesemir of the friendship he’d struck with one of their kinsmen? Even if he hadn’t been caught this morning, would he still be facing the council and removed from the Kaer?

“Mithran!” A voice jolted him out of his reverie. All eyes were on him; the council looking at him expectantly.

“Your pardon, Elders.” He felt his face heat in embarrassment.

“Will you submit to the council’s decision to place you under Geralt’s instruction until such time as you are summoned to undertake the Trial of the Blades?”

Would he? The council were not asking his permission. He either accepted their decision or he’d be cast out. It was no choice at all.  
He turned his head to regard the Witcher at his side. Golden eyes met his own, face expressionless. What did he possibly have to lose? He was leaving the Kaer today, one way or another. Vesemir’s actions always had underlying motives. He could only hope it wasn’t the Elder’s aim to have him removed from their ranks permanently. If he could survive for the year, he would still have a chance at winning his blades. Could he trust the other man to give him that chance?

He bowed formally to Geralt and then to the council. “I accept the council’s decision.”

Low conversations had started at the back of the room, now that the session was reaching its end. None of the elders chose to call for silence.

“The council have spoken on this matter. Geralt of Rivia, you are to remove your apprentice from the grounds presently. We will have someone fetch your horse and any belongings placed in our keeping.”

The elder turned to Mithran. “Apprentice Mithran. You are to be escorted to the gates. You are not to leave your Mentor’s side. You will not deviate from this course and you will refrain from speaking to your brothers. Am I clear?”

“Yes, Elder.”

Mithran knew then that he wasn't going to get any answers from Vesemir. Even if the old Witcher had wanted to speak to him, he couldn't gainsay such a direct instruction from another Elder. Glancing at his only ally in the keep, he thought he saw Vesemir’s expression soften slightly when he noted Mithran’s scrutiny and wondered at the significance.

"Elders. A pleasure as always." Geralt bowed briefly, before striding over to the chamber's entrance. The apprentice followed him wordlessly, as he'd been bidden.

Once out into the sun, it was evident that word had gotten around the keep. The students clustered around the building loosely, murmuring lowly to each other. Mithran saw how their eyes flicked between him and the seasoned Witcher at his side, gazes filled with a mix of curiosity, wariness and blatant dislike when directed at him. His brothers wouldn't know the details yet - as the council session had only just finished, but it would not take long for them to hear the specifics from Feld. Perhaps it was a good thing they were to leave immediately. He could practically feel the waves of intense dislike and hatred rolling off the crowd.

He locked eyes with one brother, and was rewarded with a silent accusation. ‘False Witcher’ the boy mouthed, no doubt mindful that the council of Elders were present.

Mithran refused to meet any more accusing stares after that. He focused on the ground in front of his feet, and on the long-haired Witcher leading the way. If Geralt was fazed by the scrutiny, he did not look it. When they reached the last of the apprentices, they simply trailed after the Elders, forming a bizarre procession. The hairs on the back of his neck itched at the heat from their gazes.

The gates to the keep had never felt so far away.

Before the gates stood two young apprentices holding the reins of two brown horses, one light and the other darker in colour. Mithran was surprised they were allowing him to take a mount, then realised it would have been an insult to Geralt to have to ride double with him.

He thanked the child, taking the reins and hoisting himself into the saddle, once again using his dark locks this time to cover the wince of pain that bled over his features. Feld and his cronies had not been gentle when they'd found him, and he'd had no time to inspect the damage.

Mithran did not know what he expected, perhaps another warning from the council, or a final parting shot - but Geralt simply mounted his own horse and nudged it into action. Relieved, he followed suit, feeling like a cur running away with its tail between its legs.

The young man did not turn around until they'd put some distance between themselves and Kaer Morhen. It looked peaceful and familiar in the afternoon sun and his chest clenched painfully. He'd been away from the keep before on scouting exercises but never with the knowledge that he might not return.

 

0o0o0

 

Mithran was dying to get out of the saddle. His torso was aching now from the beating the others had given him, the jolting motions of the horse only aggravating things. He didn't think they'd busted his ribs, but they hadn't stopped for him to be able to remove his shirt. And he hadn't dared ask Geralt to stop. This was probably a mixed blessing, since he didn't think he'd be able to climb back on his horse even if they did halt. Not without assistance.

The man was annoyed by his presence, clearly. He hadn't said a word to him or in any way acknowledged Mithran's presence. On the other hand, at least Geralt hadn't chased him off, or drawn his sword on him. Yet. And Mithran didn't want to provoke the man by opening his mouth. His gaze returned to the older man's back. The Master Witcher almost looked like he was meditating in the saddle, with hardly any sign of movement. He held the reins loosely in one hand, and Mithran wondered if he was letting the animal dictate their direction.

The sky darkened and the air turned increasingly frigid as night settled on them. Mithran had unrolled the blanket strapped to the saddle pack and draped it over himself, not enjoying the cold seasons. He wasn't exactly dressed for the winter months, and hoped the pack contained some warmer clothing. He'd thought to dig through it while they rode, but it had been secured too tightly, and his body had protested when he'd twisted to try access it. He'd look when they stopped. Please tell me we aren't going to ride through the night.

 

0o0o0o

 

The apprentice blinked, as he finally registered the lack of movement. They'd stopped at a small outcropping of rocks adjacent to a small stream. Geralt had already dismounted and was untying items from the saddle. His eyes seemed to glow in the gathering darkness as he turned to regard Mithran. It woke him from his daze and he scrambled from his horse gratefully. The next few moments were spent undoing buckles and straps and knots as he removed his gear from the mare. He dumped his things on a nearby rock, and nearly jumped out of his skin when Geralt finally spoke.

"Get a fire going."

He spun around in time to intercept a sharp bit of flint hurled in his direction.

Geralt was already disappearing into the growing shadows.

 

0o0o0o

 

 _Damn Vesemir and his incessant schemes and manipulation!_ Geralt had yet to calm down. He’d sought refuge in meditation for a while, but it had not dulled his anger at the old meddler. The man was a born politician, he was clearly wasted at the Witcher stronghold.

And now he was saddled with another burden. A student. He’d spent the last few years mincing his words and playing stupid court games, and now he was simply a pawn in another plot. It led Geralt to wonder if Vesemir cared for anyone, or if they were all just chess pieces to be moved around as the man saw fit.

What the fuck was he supposed to do with an apprentice?

He’d never taught these skills. And he was supposed to do it with some brat who was likely sulking about things. His earlier empathy had vanished.

Hearing movement nearby, the White Wolf pulled a dagger free from his boot and threw, catching a hare, neatly killing it. Pulling the knife free, he sent it after one of its companions scampering away and downed another.

He should make the boy do this, he reflected as he skinned and gutted the animals, burying the remains. He began making his way back to camp. Geralt was sorely tempted to just leave the boy behind at the first opportunity that presented itself. The lad was old enough to fend for himself if Vesemir thought him old enough to take the Trial of the Blades. There was nothing that distinguished him as a Witcher, so he could easily start a life somewhere if he chose. And he clearly wouldn’t have a problem ‘empathising’ with other humans.

But though Geralt fantasised about being on the road by himself again, he knew he would not abandon the kid. He could care less about the other members of the council. But he’d sworn to Vesemir that he would train the boy. And he would not be responsible for ruining the boy’s career as a Witcher. If he failed his trial in a year’s time, it would not be on Geralt’s head. And Vesemir knew Geralt well enough to predict his actions. _Bastard._

Geralt could see the small glow of a fire as he approached their campsite. He deliberately kept his movements silent to see if the boy would notice him. The Witcher was almost convinced that he’d failed to detect his presence, but the boy looked up suddenly, tensing. He relaxed slightly when he realised it was Geralt.

 

0o0o0o

 

He’d managed a small fire when Geralt came out of the trees with a pair of rabbits. The Witcher handed them over wordlessly and Mithran busied himself by constructing a spit for them over the flames. He could feel Geralt’s eyes on him as he worked, making him feel ill at ease.

The silence continued as the meat cooked, was left to cool slightly and eaten straight from the sticks on which it had roasted.

Mithran couldn’t take it anymore. He was tired, saddlesore and his ribs had begun to ache dully. He needed to know where he stood with the silver-haired warrior. All through dinner he had wondered how to ask. _Are you going to murder me in my sleep? Pitch me over a cliff? Vanish into the mist? Beat the shit out of me until I choose to leave?_ All were valid questions, but not wise ones.

Seconds later Mithran leapt to his feet as his brain registered the unmistakable sound of a sword being drawn. He locked eyes on the weapon in Geralt’s hand, then flickered to the older Witcher’s face.

“And here I thought you were asleep with your eyes open.” Geralt commented dryly.

Mithran flinched slightly as the sword was spun, but it was only reversed so that the hilt faced upwards.

“Here. Show me what you can do.”

The dark haired Witcher-in-training accepted the blade and moved it through the air a few times to get a feel for its balance. Geralt reached behind his head and withdrew his second sword. Mithran willed his heart rate to slow down, and made himself relax. _A sparring exercise, idiot,_ he chided himself mentally for his grim assumption.

He nodded to Geralt and they began.

It quickly became apparent to Mithran that his ribs were going to be a problem. While it wasn’t unusual for apprentices to train whilst recovering from injuries, they had access to potions and herbs which would speed the healing process up and allow full range of movement during a session. But there had been little more than clothes and rations in his pack, and so, while Geralt had gone hunting, he’d quickly soaked a cloth in some cold water to try and lessen the ache.

Geralt bested him several times in quick succession.

“Are you even trying?” Geralt wondered impatiently.

 He hissed slightly as the man’s blade got underneath his guard and glanced off his left side. Mithran danced back slightly and waited for the next assault, his side throbbing.

Mithran’s heart sank as Geralt began to target his torso with each attack. He’d obviously noted the weakness. _And as the more experienced swordsman, he’s going to use his skills like Feld does and ‘teach me a lesson.’_

The older man’s sword found his ribs again with the flat of his blade and Mithran faltered as black spots appeared at the edges of his vision. Only years of training stopped him from dropping his weapon altogether, though he had now left himself wide open to attack. The young man prepared himself for another blow as Geralt stepped in closer.

“Show me.”

Smoothly, Geralt sheathed his sword and Mithran blinked up at him in confusion for a moment, noticing for the first time that he was a head shorter than the older man.

Gingerly, he grabbed the hem of his shirt and lifted it to his shoulder, instinctively dropping his own gaze to regard the series of angry purple bruises that covered his left side. Geralt reclaimed and sheathed his other sword, then moved behind Mithran. Gloved hands pushed the shirt further up his back and then the Witcher inspected the young man’s right side.

 “Let me guess…you got in the way of someone’s fist. Repeatedly.”

“And feet.” Mithran mumbled, not sure how to respond.

Geralt just stared at him for a moment, then he caught his right glove in his teeth and pulled it off. A pale hand returned to Mithran’s left side and began to feel around one of the darker bruises.

Mithran swore.

“Your boyfriend sounds like a real charmer.”

Mithran froze, realising he’d switched to elvish. His head snapped up, warily.

Geralt sighed. “Look, kid. I don’t give a shit who you roll around in the grass with. Am I happy to be stuck with a student? No. But I swore I’d train you. So I will. And I don’t get my thrills by knocking the stuffing out of my opponents just because I’m stronger. Got it?”

The young man knew he was gaping at the silver-haired warrior. He dumbly watched the man rummage through one of his packs and pull out a jar, which he pushed into Mithran’s hand.

“Put this on your bruises. And get some sleep. We need to cover some ground tomorrow – there’s no monsters within cooee of this damn forest and I’ve been cooped up in a council room for too long.”

 

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update on 27 FEB 14. New section in bold.
> 
> * Yay for an update! I'm currently playing the Witcher 2 and have been inspired by the characters all over again. I actually have the conclusion for this story - just need to get there.
> 
> * Poor Mithran. I feel like Geralt's being super mean right now. But you can't blame the guy - getting played by Vesemir like that. I'd be pissed too.
> 
> * If you're wondering about 'cooee' - here's a note on it. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cooee  
> I could just imagine it popping out of his mouth is all...


	3. Savaeds

The flickering light in the distance became more evident as the shadows lengthened and Mithran realised it was the glow of a campfire. Who would bother travelling to these parts though? There was nothing but the Kaer for miles – and no visitors were allowed to set foot inside the keep’s walls.

He glanced at the silver-haired Witcher, but decided against disturbing the man as he looked to be meditating once more. It looked like he was set to find out however, as they were heading straight for the beacon.

“Geralt!” hailed a voice from the trees, causing both Witchers and their mounts to snap to high alert. Mithran reached a hand out to his mare’s neck and murmured soothingly – sensing that his horse was getting ready to bolt.

A man emerged from the trees, sporting a scarlet and blue doublet with matching pants and a laurel wreath crowning his head.

“That was a quick visit! I didn’t expect you for at least a week. And who is this?” the man continued in more normal tones.

“Mithran.” Geralt offered, shortly. He paused, then added. “Mithran, this is –“

“Viscount de Lettenhove; lecturer extraordinaire at Oxenfurt University; voted most charming persona north of the Yaruga; friend to all women –“

“…Indefatigable windbag; buffoon and wastrel –“

“…Better known as the famous bard and poet, Dandelion. At your service.” The man finished with a little flourish and bow, looking not at all perturbed by Geralt’s interjection. “And can I assume from the cut of your cloth that you also uphold the esteemed profession of Witcher?”

“Apprentice.”

“But I thought they didn’t let –“

“He’s travelling with us.” Geralt said firmly. He dismounted and began to tie the horse to a nearby tree. Mithran followed suit.

“Why, Geralt of Rivia! You’ve gone and taken on an apprentice. What a development!” the bard declared, grinning.

Not missing a beat, Dandelion caught the saddlepack that was tossed none too gently at him.

“How selfless! How admirable!”

“Can it, Dandelion.” Geralt growled. “Kid!”

Mithran bristled inwardly at the title. “Yes, _sir?”_ he grated out.

“Go scare up some dinner.”

“May I have lend of a knife?”

Geralt stared at him.

“Or I can club something to death with a rock, if you prefer?”

“Your packs?”

Mithran just shook his head.

“Come here.” The silver-haired Witcher started undoing the belts across his chest. A moment later, the swords came free and were held out to the young man.

“Where do you want them?”

“Put them on. You’re going to be wearing them from now on.”

Mithran glanced sharply at his mentor for a moment, suspecting a joke. After a moment, he took the blades and began to manoeuvre them into place.

 “Reach for both swords.”

The raven-haired man obediently reached behind his head. Geralt stepped in and shortened some straps at his back until Mithran could easily reach both hilts. Then he pulled a dagger from his boot and handed it to the younger Witcher.

“No words of advice. Or threats?”

“Such as?”

“Weapons aren’t toys? Knives are sharp? Damage them and I’ll damage you? Eat, sleep and bathe with them?”

Geralt smirked down at him. “All of the above, then. Except I wouldn’t try bathing or sleeping with them. _Near_ them, maybe. And I wouldn’t eat with those swords – unless you enjoy slime and monster innards and have an extremely strong constitution.”

Mithran grinned.

“Don’t be long. Dandelion’s a pain in the arse when he’s hungry. Moreso than usual, anyway.”

Mithran walked away from the camp, the feeling of the swords at his back unfamiliar but not unpleasant.

 

* * *

 

**_Saovine, 1277_ **

Mithran wondered in the privacy of his own mind if the swamp was ever going to end. He’d put the question to Geralt a few times and had been told to quit acting like a five year old. He sighed.

“You think I enjoy trudging through this muck?”

“You could just tell me how long it takes to reach the ruins. Are we talking days? Weeks? Please tell me we’re not going to spend weeks in this place.”

Geralt snorted. “Hardly. And you should get used to it, since swamps are one of the places you can make good coin hunting monsters.”

“I’m not surprised. Only idiots and monsters would live somewhere like this.”

The raven-haired Witcher caught the sudden movement of Geralt’s Witcher medallion and they both scanned the area for beasts. After a moment or two, a soft sucking sound could be heard and a giant leech-like creature oozed from behind a series of fallen logs.

“A bloedzuiger.” Geralt commented, lips twitching at the look of horror that Mithran was sure he was currently wearing.

 “That’s…disgusting. Is there even anything worth harvesting from it? Can’t we just pick up the pace?”

“I usually do. Sometimes you can find useful items on their remains.”

Geralt folded his arms and watched as the creature inched its way closer. A second and third creature appeared from the same pile of deadwood.

“Then why are we just standing here?”

 “I’d draw my sword if I were you.”

Mithran groaned, but drew his sword obediently. “You’re just going to watch?”

“Do you want me to hold your hand?”

“Piss off.”

The young man charged the small group, delivering a slash to the first giant leech, then reversing the blade to hit the other two. It wasn’t much of a challenge, though he did have to keep sidestepping as they kept trying to surround him and close the gap.

There was a collective dying shriek and the monsters began to collapse in on themselves, dripping slime. A sharp, acrid smell reached the apprentice’s nose and then the hissing started. He backed away from the dying creatures.

“I’d move back a bit further if I were you.” Geralt warned ominously and Mithran quickly drew level with his mentor, eyes fixed on the writhing bloedzuigers.

“What –“

They exploded, showering the nearby vegetation with goo and blubber. Leaves began to smoke and melt.

“They do that.” Geralt nodded towards the area.

“That’s disgusting.”

“Mm.”

Geralt approached the remains and poked around with a stick for a moment or two. “Nothing worth taking. This time.”

“Wait. What do you mean _this_ time?”

 

* * *

 

**_Yule, 1277_ **

_This is it. I’m going to die._

Mithran stared up at the giant insectoid helplessly. It lifted a needled pincer in the air and prepared to plunge it through his chest. The apprentice desperately tried to wrench free from the rocks that pinned his hood to the floor of the cavern. They wouldn’t move.

There was a flash of light and a gust of wind blasted the creature off course. It stumbled for a moment, having been caught off balance. Geralt had cast the Aard sign. Behind him, Mithran could hear the man pick up the silver sword and then the White Wolf leapt for the monster.

It was quickly dispatched.

The White Wolf moved to Mithran’s side and crouched down, casting the Aard sign once more, at low strength. The rocks trapping the younger Witcher tumbled away and Geralt gave him some space.

A shock of pain hit Mithran as he attempted to put his full weight on his right leg.

“Shit.”

“Broken?” the silver-haired warrior enquired.

“Banged a nerve, I think. Thanks for stepping in.”

“That’s what I’m here for.”

“To save my arse?”

Geralt snorted. “To teach you.”

“These are lessons?”

“Sure. Today’s one was: ‘How not to approach a Kikkimore’ and ‘Don’t cast Signs on supporting structures’.”

Mithran was silent for a moment. “You know…you could have easily hung back and told the council whatever you liked…”

Geralt frowned at him.

“If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead. Let’s just say I’ve…adjusted…to the idea of having an apprentice.”

A hand slipped around his shoulders and Geralt supported Mithran as he hobbled over to a nearby rock.

“And here I thought that Vesemir was looking for an unofficial way to get rid of me.”

“That interfering old man usually knows what he’s doing. Although, you might think it is a form of punishment by the end of the week.”

“Oh?”

“I’ve just decided to declare this week ‘Kikkimore week’.”

Mithran groaned into his hands.

“Your Signs need some work too. That was abysmal.”

 

* * *

 

**_Imbolc, 1277_ **

Mithran lounged on a window seat, staring down at the city; a cup of steaming tea in his hand. He luxuriated in the feeling of being completely clean and dry for a change. He’d sent all his clothes out to be washed, purchasing a spare pair of trousers to change into ahead of his visit to the baths. What was the point of having a decent scrub if you were just going to climb back into the same grimy outfit?

Beads clinked and Mithran glanced at the doorway in time to see Geralt emerge, still lacing his shirt. “Nice robe.” He commented, nodding at the scarlet wrap Mithran had donned to cover his top half.

“You look like you haven’t moved.” The man continued.

The young man shrugged. “I told them I wasn’t interested. I gave the Madame a few Orens for her trouble and she gave me this robe and a pot of tea.”

Geralt stared at him for a few heartbeats, then - “You know it’s quite normal for ninety-nine percent of the population to act on their desire?”

“Understood.”

“If you’d rather –“

“Please drop it, Geralt.”

The beads clinked again, interrupting whatever the silver-haired Witcher had been about to say.

A Redanian trader marched into the room, homed in on Mithran and sauntered over.

“Hello there, pretty raven. I didn’t think the House of Flowers carried such blooms as yours. I hope this ruffian is not bothering you?” he continued, glancing in the White Wolf’s direction.

Mithran’s grey eyes widened as a hand reached out and combed through his loose hair familiarly. He found his feet in a flash, instincts making him seek the middle of the room to avoid being cornered.

“Ah…actually, I’m not a part of the House.”

“Are you on loan?” the merchant persisted and Mithran bumped into Geralt as he backed away from his sudden admirer. He glanced up at the White Wolf, looking for help but Geralt just stood there grinning at him in complete amusement. _Not going to lift a finger, then._

“No, actually…I was just with him…and….” He tried to explain and then realised he was making it worse.

He growled and shoved Geralt in the chest.

“Let’s just get the fuck out of here.” He muttered, herding Geralt towards the entrance hurriedly.

“Whatever you say, petal.” Geralt had the gall to clap him on the shoulder, agreeably.

“Stuff it, Geralt.”

The Witcher laughed as he snatched his jacket off the coat stand and tossed it at Mithran.

“Here. Otherwise you’ll be soliciting half the town between here and the Inn with that fetching robe of yours….On second thought, give me back my jacket – I haven’t had a good laugh in ages.”

“Over my dead body.”

“Have I ruffled some feathers, little raven?”

“Fuck off.”

 

* * *

 

**_Birke, 1277_ **

Mithran listened with half an ear to Geralt, Dandelion and the dwarf – Zoltan  – as they exchanged news. His attention was mostly on his bowl of stew and bread, however. They’d spent the last few days completing contracts outside the city of Flotsam and the young man had been imagining real food for days. And a bed.

Geralt elbowed him and he frowned at the man. “What?”

“See that man over there? That’s Louis Merse. See him tomorrow about payment for the contracts.”

Mithran followed the Witcher’s gaze and studied a man with a black round cap and frilly ruff around his neck who was also tucking into the evening meal.

“Only accept the price listed on the contracts. And don’t let him make you fill in any damn forms.”

“Why aren’t you collecting the money?”

“ _Your_ money.”

“What?”

“Your work, your reward. Besides, it will be one less person to introduce yourself to next year when you’re on your own.”

“Nicely done, lad!” Boomed Zoltan, clapping him on the back none too gently. “Better watch out or Dandelion will be wanting to compose those horrid bits of drivel he calls ballads about yeh next.”

“I’ll have you know that my ballads are famous! Why, ‘The White Wolf and the Striga’ –“

“- Aye, I’ve sat through that ruddy poem a dozen times too many.”

“- Dandelion – so help me – if you so much as _think_ about performing a White Wolf song tonight, I’ll take back that room I so generously rented for you and you can make do in a barn, like the other penniless bums.”

The bard picked up his tank of ale and saluted the older Witcher. “Your health, Geralt!”

Mithran grinned and clicked glasses with the other three man.

Zoltan made an appreciative noise. “Ah! Now that’s more like it! Lad – perhaps you’d like to hear some _real_ stories about your mentor? There’s a fine tale or two that I could spin for your edification.”

Mithran straightened in his seat, interested.

“Now – there was the time that Geralt and a group of soldiers got as pissed as newts days after the battle of Mahakam and decided to run the naked mile in their house colours. Dead in the winter, mind you. Only they mistook dye for paint and spent days walking around looking like a rainbow…”

Geralt groaned into his hand. “I still have nightmares about being blue…”

Mithran choked on his drink and had to set it down hastily as a hand came to thump him on the back again.

“…Or there was the time he spurned the sorceress Isadora von Corvida’s attentions. So she drenched him in a bryonia and beggartick blossom concoction and teleported him to Wyvern Island. The poor blighters were after Geralt, thinking he smelt like a lady wyvern in a mating heat…”

“…Is there any way I can convince you to talk about something else, Zoltan?” Geralt enquired evenly.

“That’s not fair! You threaten to evict me from my room, then speak to the dwarf like a civilised person! What kind of friend are you?” Dandelion protested.

“…I have nothing to threaten or bribe Zoltan with.”

 

 

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another update :)
> 
> I've had these snippets on paper for a little while and I ummed and ahhed about writing them into the story, since it was a departure from the style of the first two chapters. But I *did* want to depict the passage of time and I didn't want the reader to get too bored with the potential alternative - ie - tedious chapters on chapters of forests, training, and meeting various characters. 
> 
> I did have a lot of fun with the dialogue with this one though!
> 
> So I'd love to know if you thought it worked, didn't work at all, etc. 
> 
> The next chapter will be a return to the original written style as we approach the climax. ^_^


	4. Belleteyn

**_Belleteyn, 1277_ **

 

Mithran finished his beer and decided to take action. His eyes strayed again to the wench that had been giving him not so subtle looks and he heaved himself to his feet and closed the distance.

“Come to introduce yourself, handsome?” she leered at him; her eyes roaming over his body.

“Are introductions really necessary?”

“And here I thought you were going to be a shy one. Care for little stroll?” She smiled and reached for his hand. He let her guide him away from the benches that had been set up on the outskirts of the village and into the darkness of the meadows.

They passed a number of couples in various states of dress – and intoxication – that clearly hadn’t wanted to venture too far from the glow of the village. He was glad he’d listened to his Mentor and had stored everything but a small pouch of Orens with the innkeeper. His hangover would be bad enough. The raven haired young man didn’t want to add victim of robbery to his list of grievances the following morning.

Thinking of Geralt sent an angry thrill through him. The bastard had all but pushed Mithran over to one of the fires and told him to have a good evening. Sure, they grated on each other’s nerves, constantly travelling together. But the older Witcher couldn’t even have _one_ drink with him before chasing the nearest skirt? He envied the easy friendship that Dandelion and Zoltan had with the silver-haired warrior. Geralt wouldn’t have ditched either of them so unceremoniously. He snorted inwardly. _No, they’d either be competing for women or getting themselves arrested after pulling some stupid prank. Why am I so angry about it anyway?_ _When did his approval start to mean so much to me?_

The man only had charge of Mithran for another half-year before he would undertake the Trial of the Blades. And then what? They’d go their separate ways, as was the Witcher custom. Travelling in groups or pairs went against their code – they could cover more ground and help more people by working alone.

_I would be lucky if I ever ran into Geralt again. It’s not like we’ve seen any other Witchers during our travels…_

Mithran was shaken from his musings when the chit stopped at an unremarkable hilly slope; one she’d clearly decided was good enough. She didn’t muck around and Mithran found himself with his arms full; her hands at his neck, pulling his head down for a kiss.

The apprentice tried to shut his brain down and just enjoy it for what it was. There was no audience, no hurry, and no brothers about to crucify him for his actions. They were just another couple participating in the ancient rites of Belleteyn.

_No one would give a shit,_ as Geralt would say in that pithy way of his.

He had never clarified nor corrected the council when he and Anvas had been discovered that morning four savaeds ago. And so the brothers had immediately assumed the worst. But the time he’d spent together with Anvas was rather chaste, when compared to what he’d been exposed to in the wider world. Not to mention the revelry on display tonight. _I don’t think I’d live it down if Dandelion knew I was still a virgin._

Mithran knew he wasn’t into it soon after they’d collapsed onto the grass and she’d managed to work his pants open and had hiked up her skirts invitingly. It wasn’t that he wasn’t aroused, her wandering hands had ensured that she had his attention. But he imagined that this was similar to what those whores did every day – went through the motions and pretended they were actually enjoying themselves. That really put things in perspective, and he felt his interest literally flag.

He would never find enjoyment in the arms of a woman. It was as simple as that.

Mithran murmured apologies into her ear and disentangled her hands from his person. Her cajoling gave way to disbelief and then anger.

“It is my loss, I assure you.” the apprentice attempted to placate her, pressing a kiss to her hand before quickly turning away. To linger would be to invite wrath. As he walked he scanned the surrounding area for monsters. Sensing none, he felt confident in making a hasty retreat.

By the outskirts of the town, Mithran was more or less presentable. A slight gust of wind blew a strand of hair into his face and he realised he’d lost the binding tie. He cursed softly.

It wasn’t uncommon for Witchers to wear their hair long, but Mithran had quickly realised it was not the custom amongst human males. He’d been mistaken for an elf a few times – a problem if the locals hated non-humans. Instead of cutting it short, he’d made sure it was always tied back and tucked beneath his collar.

_Now what?_

Perhaps Mithran would just head back to the inn and call it a night? He wouldn’t be able to meditate with all the alcohol in his system, but sleeping would hopefully lessen the hangover that would visit him in the morning.

Fleetingly he thought of finding company of another sort. It _was_ Belleteyn after all.  And after the embarrassing incident at the brothel, he assumed there must be such things on offer if you knew where to look. But humans weren’t generally tolerant about two males partnering. One wrong move and he’d face a beating. Or a lynch mob.

_I should have asked Geralt. He would know...oh, for fuck’s sake, idiot! Stop thinking about your Mentor!_ He chided himself, running a hand through his hair, irritably. It was pointless to wonder about something that was never going to happen. _Geralt likes women. Not men. And even if he did, he wouldn’t look twice at you!_

Damn these miserable feelings anyway! He was starting to agree with the Feld and the council – they were a bloody curse!

The smell of roasting meat halted him in his tracks, and he spied a vendor that had set up a small fire pit over which a calf was suspended. Having nowhere to be, Mithran allowed his stomach to lead him over to the queue. This part of the town had been littered with small fires around which logs had been placed for seating.

A flash of white caught his eye and Mithran easily picked out his Mentor’s unusual, pale hair. Geralt was sitting at one of the smaller fires, looking extremely relaxed without weapons nor armour. He was conversing with a young man who looked to be some sort of noble. Or wealthy trader. Or mage. Hard to tell.

Mithran subtly scanned his Mentor’s form for signs that he’d snuck away from the fire like some of the other revellers. But he looked no more rumpled than his well-worn clothes normally were.

Someone jostled him in the line and he paid closer attention to his surroundings. When it was clear that the queue wasn’t going to turn murderous over the drunken, enthusiastic shoving, his gaze strayed once again to the White Wolf.   

To his astonishment, the man had fisted his hand in Geralt’s shirt and was tugging him away from the fire. Geralt staggered slightly and Mithran frowned. Just how much had Geralt had to drink? He stared after them, uneasily. _What should I do? Geralt wanted me to leave him alone. But what if that guy has some kind of grudge against non-humans, or he’s in some weird cult?_ There were thousands of possibilities, none of them good. _There’s no question that Geralt can handle himself in a fight. But if this was premeditated, then they’ll make sure to overwhelm him with sheer numbers. And if he’s drunk…._

Mithran knew he couldn’t let it go. If he didn’t go after them, he’d worry about his Mentor for the rest of the evening. Even if there was some perfectly reasonable explanation. Cursing softly, he left the line and hurried over to the alley. A tell-tale flash of silver disappeared around a corner and he followed quietly, looking out for anything that could be used as a weapon. _I should have at least kept a dagger or something._

Mithran’s sharp ears picked up the sounds of a scuffle, and he broke into a run. Around the next corner, the same man had pinned the White Wolf to a wall, a hand to his throat _. Only one man? Perhaps he’s a mage?_ But Mithran couldn’t sense any Power being channelled. At least it would be two against one in a minute, he through grimly. Even if he’s a mage…

Mithran slipped behind the man, smoothly grabbing his shoulder and jerking him backwards. The apprentice spied a dagger in the man’s boot calf and went for it. But the other man beat him to it and pulled it free.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” the man rounded on him threateningly.

“I could ask you the same thing, asshole.”  He growled at the other man, waiting for an opening. Why wasn’t Geralt taking advantage of the distraction?

“This doesn’t concern you, whelp! Run along now before I lose my patience.” He drawled crossly. Then his peered more closely at Mithran.

“Say, you’re rather…pretty. Maybe you didn’t come here to break this up but to join in?” he took a step towards the young man.

“What?” Mithran froze in shock. _Surely the man didn’t mean…_ Suddenly the pair’s disappearance from the fire took on a different meaning. _But Geralt likes women?_

“You look like the kind who likes to suck cock.”

Mithran’s eyes narrowed angrily at the crude words. _One more word jerk, and you won’t know your mouth from your arse. I’ve had it with these types of propositions._

“Mithran--“

“--Wait. You _know_ this brat?” the man glanced between Geralt and Mithran. “I think I see what’s going on here. Look, kid. If the Witcher had wanted you to warm his bed for the remains of the night, he would have said so. So take a hint and let someone else have a turn, hnn?”

The man punctuated his lecture by pushing at Mithran’s shoulder none too gently.

Crack. Mithran’s fist connected with the man’s nose. He let out a howl as he dropped the dagger and placed his hands over the broken appendage. “You little shit.” He snarled. “I am going to have you beaten and thrown out of town! Just as soon as the _entire garrison_ finish ploughing you.”

Two pairs of eyes followed him as the man stalked off, cursing.

“You do that.” Mithran muttered darkly.

The alley grew deadly silent.

_Is there anything I - don’t- screw up around this man?_ Mithran contemplated his boots for a moment. He couldn’t bring himself to look at the other Witcher.

“I’m so sorry, Geralt. I – I thought the jerk was leading you into an ambush or something.”

“You were following me. And you thought I needed back-up against a noble’s son.” The warrior’s tone was icy.

 “I saw you by chance. You looked drunk. And he didn’t exactly look friendly.” Mithran finally met the Witcher’s unimpressed stare. His arms remained folded.

 “How the fuck was I supposed to know it was a bloody _tryst?”_ Mithran lost his temper. “All I’ve ever seen you do is chase after skirts. So my _apologies_ for trying to _help_!”

A hand reached out and for a moment, Mithran thought Geralt was going to backhand him. He braced himself for an impact that never came. Instead the older man reached into Mithran’s hair and pulled a blade of grass free, holding it between them.

“And yet I trust that you can handle yourself for one evening. It seems that you managed just fine.”

Mithran wished Geralt had just slapped him in the face. His face flooded with shame; his anger vanished as quickly as it had risen.

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” he said bitterly. His eyes burned warningly and Mithran spun on his heel quickly. He was not going to cry in front of his Mentor. _I am –never– drinking again_. He vowed to himself.

“ _Amin hiraetha, Gwynbleidd."_ He said over his shoulder softly.

 

0o0o0o0

 

Mithran deliberately kept away from the fires this time, hunger forgotten. He kept his head down, knowing that with the size of the town it was possible he’d run into his Mentor again if he wasn’t careful.

He’d head back to his room and try and forget this rotten night ever existed, forget that Geralt wasn’t as straight as he’d thought. Even if he had to knock himself out with a potion.

Mithran murmured an apology when he nearly bumped into a stocky giant of a man. Vaguely he recalled seeing him at the town’s forge. _He’s definitely built enough to be the blacksmith…_

“No harm done, Miss.” Oh, but you’re not a lass are you?” the man peered down at him, hazily.

“Sorry to disappoint. But no.” he made to move past the other man.

“Well now, I haven’t had this sort of company in a while. What do you say, lovely?”

Mithran blinked up at the blacksmith, wondering if he heard correctly. “Pardon?”

“Want some company?”

Mithran opened his mouth. Then paused. _I need to get this over with._ “Yeah. Okay, sure.”

The giant grinned, and began to lead him through the backstreets of the town. Near the end of an alley, amongst a bunch of barrels and crates they stopped, the man turning to him expectantly. Fleetingly, Mithran thought of the grassy hill from earlier in the evening. Pity. It had been the wrong sort of company, but at least a softer location.

The young man cleared his throat. “So, how do you want me, then?”

“Let’s start with that pretty mouth of yours. Didn’t exactly come prepared, if you know what I mean.”

Mithran shrugged. He didn’t.

“You could look a little cheerier - I didn’t exactly twist your arm.”

Mithran frowned up at him. “Do you always complain when someone goes onto their knees for you?” he retorted, as he prepared to do just that.

“Pardon me, friend.” Came a familiar voice. “But I have need of my apprentice.”

Mithran and the blacksmith both whirled to face the newcomer. _What the fuck is he doing here?_ The young man’s gaze settled on Geralt’s calm face.

“That’s a little petty, even for you, sir.”

 “You know him, lad?”

“Yeah. It’s fine. Sorry – I’m pretty sure this is a lesson on payback.”

Geralt just rolled his eyes, and yanked on Mithran’s arm, marching him out of the alley.

“Very mature of you, Mentor. Now we’re even.” He muttered, unhappily.

Geralt stopped to regard him. “I didn’t interrupt you because of earlier.”

“Uh huh. Then why?”

Geralt just looked at him as if he’d grown a second head. “You were really going to just…” then he sighed. “Sex is supposed to be enjoyable, not a chore.” He said instead, continuing to walk with his hand around Mithran’s arm. It looked like they were heading back to the inn.

“It wouldn’t have been.” At Geralt’s quelling look, he amended. “At least, towards the end, right? I figured I was just getting too hung up on things and just needed to get it over with.”

“Get it over with?” the man echoed. “But you’ve been with a male, surely you – “

“Actually…”

Golden eyes pinned him again. “The elf they ‘discovered’ you with…” he prompted.

“Anvas and I…never got that far. And, I doubt I won any points tonight for my conduct with my female companion, seeing as I left her out in the fields. No monsters present.” He added on seeing Geralt’s expression darken.

Part of him felt relieved that he’d finally told someone, but most of him was absolutely mortified. _Hell, telling Zoltan or Dandelion would have been preferable._

“There isn’t a nice way to ask this. Do you have problems in that area?”

“What?” he choked. “Ah. No. That’s not it.” He quickly assured the other man. “I just realised that I don’t actually like women very much. At all. And so I thought I’d just get used to the fact.”

“Get used to…what? Picking someone you’re not even remotely interested in?”

Mithran stared at him. “Isn’t that the point of Belleteyn? Picking someone at random and…having a go?” he sighed. “Aen Seidhe hate mongrels, and most humans are disgusted by the thought of two males together…so…it’s not like I can really afford to be picky.”

The last part was spoken quietly, as they’d entered the inn and trouped up the stairs. _No need to humiliate myself any further than I already have tonight._ Mithran realised they’d stopped in the hallway near their rooms and reached into his pocket for the key. Geralt was a silent and still presence at his side.

“Night, sir.” He offered, unsure what else there was to say.

His arm was caught and he found himself pressed against the wall between their doors. He blinked up at the other Wolf, knowing that the confusion would easily be read from his face.

“I promised myself I wouldn’t do this.” Geralt informed him. And then he closed the distance between them, pressing his lips to Mithran’s firmly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nearly there now!   
> *NB - Amin hiraetha, Gwynbleidd = I'm sorry, White Wolf.   
> (the first two words are actually Tolkien elvish, but damned if I am going to use the Witcher's elvish version - squass'me. How bloody embarrassing!  
> Aen Seidhe = elves. Full blooded ones.
> 
>  
> 
> These scenes were the first that I wrote between these two characters, and obviously where I wanted the story to end up. I hope the writing styles are not too jarringly different between this and the earlier chapters. Or the character's personalities markedly different. I do believe that Mithran's grown and changed a little as time has passed. But I'll let the reader decide. Let me know what you think.
> 
> I like to believe that Geralt would be more appreciative of the male form were he not surrounded by all the ugly examples throughout the Witcher 1 PC game. Lucky this changes with the introduction of two gorgeous NPCs in the Witcher 2. (Iorveth AND Roche. YUM!)
> 
> Who knew that so much propositioning happened during Belleteyn, hey? *winks*.


	5. Belleteyn - part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter contains an explicit sex scene between TWO MALES. Don't read on if you are not keen on either of these things.

_“I promised myself I wouldn’t do this.” Geralt informed him. And then he closed the distance between them, pressing his lips to Mithran’s firmly._

The younger male stiffened in shock; wondering if he’d passed out somewhere and this was simply the product of a dream. He was afraid to break the moment. What if Geralt was simply offering a gesture of comfort? Or he was playing some kind of joke? _No, he would not be that cruel._ Every instinct urged him to return the kiss. _I could ruin everything between us…_

It was only when Geralt started to pull away that Mithran decided to take his chances. _Please don’t let me lose his friendship over this_. He sought out Geralt’s mouth, hesitantly settling his hands on the older man’s waist. The silver-haired Witcher reacted immediately; arms encircling Mithran and drawing him closer. His mouth was quickly coaxed open and thoroughly explored.

Mithran broke away and drew a breath. “You’re not just doing this because –“

“Just stop thinking, Mithran.”

Geralt cut off any further protest and the raven-haired man let the thought go, unconsciously obeying his Mentor’s direction. The White Wolf suddenly pulled away, frowning and Mithran blinked up at him in confusion. The dull sound of boots on the stairs brought him back to their surroundings. _Oh shit._

Geralt hastily unlocked the door to his room, then grabbed Mithran’s shirt collar and hauled him inside. The sound of footsteps moved into the hall as Geralt re-locked the door. The Witcher’s eyes glowed in the darkness of the room as he advanced on Mithran.

The apprentice felt the backs of his legs hit the bed before he was sent sprawling; the silver-haired Witcher following him down onto the mattress. Geralt re-aligned their mouths; his hands moving under Mithran’s shirt to trail along his torso.

The calloused pads of the White Wolf’s fingers sent thrills through his body and he gasped sharply into the other’s mouth as fingers found his nipples and kneaded mercilessly. He felt Geralt’s mouth curve upwards in amusement.

Mithran decided he’d like to reciprocate. He reached a hand down blindly to find the other’s shirt hem and aimed too low, brushing against the man’s crotch. He could feel the outline of the bulge which told him that Geralt was very much enjoying himself.

“And here I thought you were shy.” Geralt murmured, unconsciously echoing the girl’s words earlier that evening.

Mithran felt himself flush.

“Ah. Actually I meant to do this…” he succeeded in grabbing the hem of the other man’s shirt and jerked it up between their bodies; insistently tugging when it snagged at the man’s armpits. Geralt moved back slightly, allowing Mithran to guide the shirt over his head.

“But I can help you with that too, if you’d like?” His hand drifted back down and his fingers brushed the man’s covered erection deliberately. Geralt hissed slightly and golden eyes glowed hungrily down at him.

“Damn straight you’re helping me with it.” The older male murmured into his ear before nipping his way down the column of Mithran’s throat.

The apprentice blinked as his shirt came suddenly under attack and was removed. Mithran struggled to loosen the lacing on Geralt’s trousers without being able to see. Not that Geralt’s mouth on his neck was helping him concentrate. He gasped sharply as teeth bit lightly into his shoulder.

He felt his wrists being captured and he let Geralt draw his hands away from the edge of the man’s trousers and back up to his shoulders.

“This is not a race.”

 “Sorry.” Mithran offered, embarrassed.

The White Wolf simply tilted his chin with a warm palm and proceeded to kiss him thoroughly. They spent some moments like this; Geralt demonstrating his skill in the art and Mithran helplessly surrendering himself to the other man’s mouth. He began to pant into the other’s mouth breathlessly as his blood began to burn with need.

Mithran’s fingers carded through the long, pale hair and along broad shoulders; palms pressing into the Witcher’s back and urging him closer. Geralt obliged and settled his weight more heavily down onto his apprentice. Without thought, the younger male immediately arched up slightly to rub himself against Geralt. Their cloth covered erections slid against each other and both groaned at the sensation. Geralt ground his hips down harder in response.

Mithran turned his face to the side, gasping for air and feeling slightly light headed from the lack of oxygen. Geralt did not follow him, but grazed his lips over Mithran’s ear and licked a stripe along the shell; letting his breath ghost over the wetness. Mithran moaned audibly and he felt Geralt grin.

He tried to turn his ear away but the White Wolf would have none of it, and held his head in place as he continued to focus his attentions on the abused ear.

Mithran swore, then moaned brokenly as Geralt dipped his tongue into his ear and swirled it around once before thrusting it in and out obscenely as his hips rocked against Mithran’s. “Fuck!” he thrashed underneath the man, unable to take the torment to his too-sensitive ear. His arousal strained against his trousers painfully.

“Stop…stop…stop…” he begged, caught between laughter and raging desire.

“You’re squirming like an eel.” Geralt’s amused voice murmured into his ear. But he took pity on Mithran and backed off slightly.

Mithran continued to breathe harshly for a moment or two, dimly aware of the other man’s hand brushing along his chest and stomach and pulling at the laces on his trousers. His eyes fluttered closed and he moaned as Geralt’s hand wrapped around his sex and tugged experimentally.

The apprentice glanced up at his Mentor, distractedly parting his legs further to allow the man better access. He watched the golden eyes darken with lust and his breath caught.

Fingers raked at the waist of Mithran’s trousers and dragged the garment down his thighs, and he lifted his hips obediently when the other man directed; allowing the last article of clothing to be removed.

“I thought…it…ah…wasn’t a race?” Mithran’s voice hitched as silver-haired WItcher stroked him firmly.

“This will help take the edge off.”

Mithran cried out as Geralt bent down and engulfed his length. Geralt’s mouth was confident on him, like everything else about the man. Skilled and confident as he licked and sucked at Mithran’s cock, and he moaned desperately. His hands clutched and twisted in the sheets at his sides, his eyes captivated by the sight of the pale-haired man between his legs.

 

0o0o0o0o

 

Geralt blindly dug into a pocket for the vial he’d kept on his person for Belleteyn. He continued to distract Mithran with his mouth while he rubbed a small amount of the oil on the first few fingers of one hand and he slid them back behind the boy’s outstretched legs.

He felt Mithran tense slightly in surprise as his finger traced the boy’s entrance, but there was no protest. A wave of lust washed through Geralt at the thought that he would be Mithran’s first and he inhaled sharply through his nose, trying to calm himself down. He was going to show the boy a good first time. Geralt slowly worked one, then two fingers into his apprentice. He slowed his sucking down and timed it with the thrusts of his fingers inside the boy.

His fingers finally brushed Mithran’s sweet spot and the younger cried out at the sensation. Geralt made sure to hit the same spot every now and then; the young Witcher’s cries grew increasingly desperate; his body pushing back against Geralt’s fingers.

“Wait – I’m close! Too close….nnnh!” the boy tugged on a lock of hair warningly. Geralt simply hummed with his mouth around the boy, petting Mithran’s prostate and sucking more firmly. The apprentice tensed below him and moaned lowly in his throat as he came. The silver-haired man took a few moments to tease the last vestiges of the boy’s climax from him, then released him altogether.

Geralt propped himself on an elbow to watch Mithran as the boy’s trembling slowed and finished. Grey eyes regarded him, dazedly.

“Why did you keep going?” he wondered, breathlessly. “I mean, I thought…”

“You needed that.”

 “You’re still wearing trousers.”

“The White Stripes could use someone with your keen observation skills.”

Mithran rolled his eyes; reaching out and unlacing the White Wolf’s pants. He winced visibly as Geralt’s erection was uncovered.

“Gods that must hurt.” Mithran exclaimed. A look of apology flitted across his face.

“Don’t. I enjoyed watching you come undone. Definitely something I’d like to see again.” Geralt leered at him and winked.

Mithran rolled his eyes again. “No wonder people shout ‘lock your women away!’ when you pass, Mentor.” He teased.

Whatever Geralt was about to say was lost as his apprentice took him in hand and began fondling him. The pale-haired man inhaled sharply at the sudden stimulation.

“Hold out your palm” Geralt instructed, his voice rough.

His apprentice did as he was bid and the White Wolf poured some oil onto the outstretched hand; then wordlessly guided it back to his straining cock.

The now-oil slick fingers resumed their attentions and Geralt shut his eyes for a moment, the touch almost sending him over the edge. He felt Mithran cup the back of his neck with his other hand; urging Geralt’s mouth to meet his own. If the boy was bothered by the taste of his own seed, he did not show it.

Moments later, Geralt broke away, resting his forehead against his apprentice’s.

“You have two choices, Mithran.” He informed the boy. “You can keep going at that…”

“You mean this?” His apprentice grinned and palmed him.

Geralt growled at him wordlessly. “Or --“

“--They say that if a pair lose their virginity on Belleteyn, they’ll be blessed with good luck for the rest of the year. _You’re_ definitely out of the running, but maybe the gods will let me share my future luck with you?” Grey eyes regarded him earnestly.

Geralt chuckled lowly. “I don’t think it works like that.” The White Wolf covered Mithran’s body with his own, settling his weight on the boy. “There will be some discomfort. You will tell me if it gets too much, understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Brat.”

Geralt urged Mithran’s legs up and apart with his hands; guiding them around his torso. His apprentice took the hint and wrapped his limbs firmly around the older man. The White Wolf focused on breathing evenly for a moment, fighting the overwhelming urge to just _take_ the boy immediately.

Instead, he positioned himself and carefully pushed into the younger male beneath him. Mithran hissed and tensed automatically.

“Relax your muscles. Even breaths.” Geralt fought his own battle as the boy’s heat gripped him tightly. Mithran’s breathing steadied and the Witcher slowly inched deeper. Geralt reached between them and took his apprentice’s spent length; stroking in a leisurely rhythm and earning him a surprised gasp.

After a few moments of pure torture, Geralt found himself fully sheathed inside Mithran. As the younger Witcher relaxed around him, the White Wolf began to move slowly, observing the young man’s face for signs of pain. Geralt aimed for the boy’s sweet spot and was rewarded with a low groan. He  finally gave in to his urges and began to move faster, making sure to aim for the same spot; stroking in time with this thrusts.

Mithran soon hardened again as the dual stimulation and began to move in time with Geralt, urging him faster; harder.

It wasn’t long before Geralt buried himself deeply in Mithran and came, biting down hard on the boy’s shoulder to muffle himself. The raven-haired man let out a sound between a yelp and a cry at the sudden pain, followed swiftly by his own release.

The air was filled with their ragged breaths as they rode out their orgasms. Tired, Geralt simply rested his full weight on Mithran, drifting for a short time. The boy eventually pushed at him and he obligingly rolled to the side, sliding from Mithran’s body.

The young man quickly followed him, curling around him bonelessly; head resting on Geralt’s chest.

“You bit me.” Came the tired accusation.

“Better than the alternative.”

“What?”

“We’re two males, remember?”

“Oh.”

It was silent for a moment, then –

“You didn’t _have_ to bite that hard. That’s going to bruise.”

Geralt shrugged. “Probably won’t be the only one I give you tonight.”

Mithran snorted. “I hear your good, Mentor. But surely even you can’t –“

“—Oh, I suspect it’s not just _me_ , my young apprentice…” Geralt drawled, amused. He ran his fingers through the dark locks and down the young man’s back lazily.

Mithran lifted his head to regard the older man. “What do you mean?”

“Let’s just say that Witchers have increased stamina. In all things. Most, however, won’t discover this particular…gift.”

Geralt’s grin widened at the expression on Mithran’s face.

 

 

 

 

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> I didn't mean to leave these guys hanging for so long, poor guys! I had a lot of fun writing this story and immersing myself in the world of the Witcher. I cannot wait till the 3rd game is out!
> 
> Not sure if I'll revisit these two again - I think I may have completed their story.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed. Comments and feedback welcome. This was un-beta'd, so if you spot a mistake, I'm happy to hear about it.
> 
> And may I offer a plea to the universe - anyone with a love for Geralt and the Witcher series to take up their pen (or keyboard) and get writing! I cannot believe the lack of fanworks out there for this amazing series!
> 
> xox


End file.
